


I remember you before you became a story

by shisabella



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26995468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shisabella/pseuds/shisabella
Summary: "They speak of you like it's a fairytale."
Relationships: Kasumi | Misty/Satoshi | Ash Ketchum
Kudos: 12





	I remember you before you became a story

**Author's Note:**

> I'm moving my old works from fanfiction.net and tumblr to this account. This story was originally written in 2014.
> 
> Inspired by a quote from the poem "Gretel, from a Sudden Clearing" by Marie Howe.

They speak of you like it’s a fairytale. They call you the hero; the one who did what no one believed possible, who gave his life to save us. The story changes the tiniest bit every time it’s told, every time it travels from tongue to tongue. They reshape it into mythology, fabricate details to make up for the things they don’t know; and little by little they become indistinguishable from the truth. They say that you were fearless, that you met your fate with a smile on your face and your head held high, unfaltering. They say heroes never cry. They speak of what you did like it was beautiful, as if a death could ever be, regardless of its place in the great scheme of things. They smooth out the uglier parts, the ones that hurt the most. If they do mention that there was blood, it’s a watercolor stain, never messy, nor sticky, nor lingering in the creases of the skin when I thought I’d scrubbed it away hard enough, crying so badly I nearly threw up in the shower. They paint a nice picture, but it’s only a thick, bright colored layer covering what really was.

And really, could anyone blame them? It’s been so long, so many years. They all know _about you_ , every single one; they’ve all heard the story, but very few ever actually knew _you_. Sometimes I wonder, would they still believe their fairytale if they had? Would they tell it as their children listen bright-eyed and quiet, would those children still say that they want to be like you when they grow up, like the hero who saved the world, even if you were little more than a child yourself? Would they pride themselves in having known the hero? I believe some would. So much time has passed, after all, the truth has started to falter at the edges even for me. Sometimes it feels like a dream, an elaborate fantasy I came up with once upon a time.

_But I remember you, before you became a story._ They never speak of the way you smiled, of how your whole face lighted up with glee every time. They don’t talk of how you used to sleep at night, arms and legs spread in every direction in a tangled mess of blankets, snoring so loudly that sometimes I wanted to smother you with my pillow. They rarely mention how you had the power to brighten the life of everyone you crossed paths with, people and Pokémon alike. They never say anything about the way your voice sounded sometimes when you were afraid, trembling just a little under the surface. They don’t know, none of them, what it was like to sit next to you under a sea of stars while in front of us the fire crackled and drew orange brush strokes on your cheeks. They don’t speak of the rough, spontaneus sweetness I heard in your voice sometimes when we talked, of how you looked at me once as if you had never seen me before, at a summer ending festival of so many years ago.

They never say that you were scared. That the last time I met your eyes, for that last heart-wrenching moment, they were glistening with tears.

I remember you. Not the hero, not the fairytale. You.


End file.
